THE WEIGHT OF A SINGLE EGG

Ray stares down at the blue slab of his phone, unable to remember which way to drag the little green icon as the whole thing vibrates in his hand. He figures it out just in time and there is the sound of Ingrid’s voice on the other end.

‘Took your time.’

‘I was upstairs.’

She laughs. ‘Be careful napping in the sun – you haven’t got much hair to hide behind these days.’

Ray looks for something witty and charming to say in response, but ends up asking ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better. I slept, which was nice for a change, and then I ate breakfast outside.’

‘Great. I’ll have a shower then drive over to see you.’

A pause. A sparrow lands on a fencepost and turns to look at him.

‘Why don’t you come later?’

‘Why?’ Ray asks, suddenly concerned.

‘I’ve arranged for you to meet the vicar at ten.’

‘The vicar?’

‘His name is Thomas. I know we’ve been over all of this, but it’s something I need you to do okay? There’s still an hour if you want another nap.’

‘I’m about to put the washing out.’

‘Maybe hold off. It’s going to rain later.’

Ray pauses. Glances up at the burning blue sky and the dry, unrelenting heat. ‘I checked the forecast…’

‘Just pop it on the rack okay? Don’t be late for the vicar.’

Ray puts down the phone and sits, motionless, in the plastic garden chair. Ingrid’s mistake about the washing has him bothered. He checks again – highs of thirty-two, 1% chance of precipitation – it isn’t like her to make these kinds of mistakes. And what was all that about the vicar? Neither of them had set foot in a church since childhood. Feeling uneasy, Ray drags the garden chair to the wall and heads inside for a shower.

***

Thomas meets Ray at the entrance to the church gardens. Haloed in green vegetation, he doesn’t look like a vicar with his black bomber jacket and scuffed leather boots. As Ray approaches he presents him with a single egg.

‘Hatched an hour ago. Thought you might eat it for lunch.’

Ray slips this strange gift into the breast pocket of his shirt and glances at the stone building to his left.

‘The church is always open,’ says Thomas, noticing the direction of his gaze. ‘We can say a prayer afterwards if you like.’

Ray doesn’t respond, still not entirely sure why he is here, and Thomas ushers him up the hill. Multicoloured butterflies float in their wake and, as they enter the graveyard, Ray begins to lose the feeling in his legs, but he follows Thomas through the tombstones and over to a patch of grass beneath the boughs of a tree.

‘Two spaces.’ He touches Ray on the shoulder. ‘You’re holding a lot together at the moment. If you need to chat my house is just around the corner. You could come over for a cup of coffee?’

Ray declines. He looks up at the tree, then down at the patch of grass in the shade of the tree, then thanks Thomas for his time and leaves. A toad is sat on the steps to the church, throat bulging, watching him with intense, beady eyes.

Ray’s shoes are too big and the church suddenly feels very tall and imposing. He fights the urge to reach up and touch the stone.

***

Desperate to get out, he ends up going the wrong way down an overgrown path slippery with moss. The low branches seem to reach out towards him and birds flit through the treeline. The sound of running water. A small clearing in the trees.

A stream bubbles down into a small pond. A plaque tells him that this is the sacred well, a baptism site since the 15th Century. Sunlight crashes onto the surface of the water and, down here, the air is cool. Ray lowers himself down until the well swallows him whole, cold water filling his nose and his ears, his vision clouded and dark, and then he stands up and watches his movement ripple out across the water. He reaches into his breast pocket and removes the vicar’s egg. Freshly hatched, sat amongst the folds of his weathered hand. He looks down at it awhile and then, quietly, begins to cry.

***

Ingrid thanks the nurse and leans back against the pillow as gravity sucks the clear liquid from the plastic bag, down the plastic tube, and into her arm. She watches through the open doors as one of the gardeners pushes a lawnmower over grass bleached blonde with sun. Beside her bed is an armchair piled high with well-intentioned gifts; magazines and flowers and chocolates and sleek electronic devices, all lying out of reach. She considers reading, looks around for her book, then hears a knock at the door.

‘Yes?’

She’s expecting the doctor and her heart soars when she sees Ray’s face poke through the gap in the doorway. It is a sunny day in 1968. She is walking down the main road out of her estate and, out of nowhere, a stranger crashes into her, face buried in a book. He mumbles his apology but there is kindness in his eyes and here he is, slipping off his jacket and settling into an armchair.

‘What did the doctor say?’

‘He hasn’t been around yet.’

Ray nods and leans in to smell the lilies, a gift from their only surviving daughter. He reaches into his breast pocket and hands Ingrid a hardboiled egg wrapped in cling-film, still warm, a strange gift, she agrees to eat it for breakfast.

They talk some more – medical concerns, family gossip, an alcoholic grandson wandering penniless around Italy until, eventually, their words grow into silence. They hold hands and look out over the garden until Ray’s grip goes slack and Ingrid realises he has fallen asleep. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Ray’s hand is hot and dry. It smells of fresh water and stone. She brings it to her lips, to her nose, worrying about him, about how he will manage. She, too, is falling asleep when it starts to rain.

First a few fat drops sputter into the patio then, moments later, sheets of water come coursing in from the hillside, gardeners scrambling to collect their tools, the smell of grass in the air. Ingrid has always hated the rain but, for some reason, today the sight fills her with joy. She unwraps the egg and holds it to her chest, just below the collarbone, while Ray mumbles and shifts positions and slides down in his armchair and Ingrid lifts her other hand, places her palm against her cheek and, for the first time in weeks, she begins to laugh.

Jack Jenkins is a writer and editor living in Bristol, UK. He works in children's publishing and writes strange, confessional poems and short stories. He has recently completed his debut collection, a series of interconnected stories titled Orange Squash.